Kara Sevde
by EJ Wakefield
Summary: He's always been there. She just didn't tell anyone.
1. Chapter 1

**Kara Sevde**

A/N: Kara Sevde = "black love." When you feel passionate, blinding love for another person.

There is no way they haven't spoken in 9 years. He's always been there. She just didn't tell anyone.

Dedicated to the love of my life. Mi vida, you know who you are.

* * *

The first time was 8 years ago. A single-line text from a number she didn't recognize.

_Meet me Friday 2000_

Immediately, she knew. She knew it was him.

She took a few breaths and set the phone down. She tucked her hair behind her left ear and pinched the bridge of her nose hard. She did this often. She could focus on that pressure and for just a moment it would give her some reprieve from the chaos and constant motion that was her life.

A fucking year, she thought. And there it was. _Meet me Friday…_

She was mad at him. She knew she was mad. At first, there had been a lot of crying. Grief and sorrow. Deep feelings of loss. And then finding a way to move on, rebuilding some type of new normal for herself. Suddenly, all that just turned in to anger. She didn't mention him to anyone after those first few months. References to "her old partner" didn't make her sad anymore. _That_ part of it didn't make her feel sad anymore. He was her partner until he wasn't. That was the job. But his leaving – just leaving – without so much as a "goodbye…"

And yet, there it was. The message. And there she was, trying not to let all this complicated shit come flooding back into her life as if no time had passed.

The memories, especially from the early days of their partnership, had started to do what memories do. They were coalescing, and they were fading. She couldn't remember the exact details of all their cases. Couldn't recollect all the conversations and late nights and cups of coffee. But the emotional imprints of all those times were an integral part of her what made her _her_. The way she sat in the passenger seat of the squad car, slightly turned to the driver's side. The chair she sat in when she was in the Captain's office. Never finishing a meal during work hours because she hadn't been able to ever eat her whole order without involuntarily sharing it with him anyway.

God, she'd had to do so much work to keep from comparing Amaro to him. Muscle memory is a real bitch sometimes.

But if she was honest, she believed in innatism now. Some of it was learned experience, some of this desire to be near him. It had to be more, though. Her need to do this fucking job and torture herself? That was a product of her childhood experiences, the circumstances of how she even came to be in this world. But him? The only explanation was that she has loved him since the beginning of everything. That their souls are from the same star.

She laughed a little now, slightly disgusted with herself. Because Friday was four days away, and of course, she was going to go see him.

* * *

Friday came. She found herself standing outside the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. Then the memory of that day, years ago, hit her hard. It was after she had come back from Oregon. Things between them had been strained for a while. She had seen him with another woman, another partner. "The stunner," Kathy has called her. She had told him that he was the longest relationship she had ever had with a man. He told her he didn't want to worry all the time that he was fucking things up with her. He was talking about the partnership, but they both knew better. He started buying her food, calling her on her days off, trying to not be so damn mad all the time. He loosened up and tried to be a different man for her. He had changed his attire and started bringing her tea every morning and when she got over that kick, coffee.

And then, on the very spot where she stood now, a single Elliot Stabler had kissed her and she had kissed him back. It was a boundary they never thought they would cross. He told her that what he felt for her was more than love, and she'd stayed silent - stoic even - and tried to not panic. He pushed her to open up to him, but she just wasn't ready. She wasn't ready to be anything other than the job, and he was the most important part of that.

She remembered his words on that day, so painfully articulated, "You've perfected the disguise, Olivia. You've spent your life looking for someone you can't fool, even if you've never realized it. And I'm it." But she had remained in her shell and he returned to what he knew - his wife and his rage - and tried to make being what she needed him to be enough. He became a father to a child he wasn't even sure was his but adored nevertheless. A child she had saved.

Days became weeks. Weeks became years. He tried to be a good husband, but they still flirted. There was always something there, still not fully spoken. She found men who became placeholders and he tried to keep his jealousy in check. Sealview happened and he knew something had gone horribly wrong, but she wouldn't talk about it. That drove him further away. The cases mounted and people died. _He_ nearly died. She saved his ass by kissing Stuckey, but took the opportunity to remind him of how angry she was that this is what they were, all they would ever be. "I want him to watch," she had said. "He's a prick."

After that, they exchanged looks and occasional hugs that reminded them they were a constant to each other. They played each other's spouse more than once, and he tried not to cringe when Kathy called her his "work wife."

Then it all came to a head on that day in the precinct, and he was gone.

And now she there she was, to see him.

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

* * *

He was sitting in the corner with his back to the door. He never sat with his back to the door. No cop she knew ever did. They used to fight about who got to face the door and either ended up selecting a table that ran parallel to the entrance so they both had a clear view or took the food to go.

"Well, he's not a cop anymore," Olivia thought. What else had changed in that year?

It occurred to her he must have wanted her to see him first. Give her a chance to back out, maybe? Make sure she really wanted to see him?

The coffee shop was crammed with mostly empty tables and booths, so she knew he was aware that she'd arrived. Deciding not to delay the inevitable, she took the 10 steps to his booth. He looked up at her. An empty coffee mug sat in front of him, and he was wearing a black fleece zip-up with a stand collar and dark gray track pants. His phone was on his lap.

For her part, she was still in her work clothes, a long-sleeved ribbed teal shirt and black pants. She had on her coat, and her long hair was pulled back in a clip.

Elliot stood up. "Olivia," he said, not smiling, but with a soft expression and eyes that betrayed his typically cool exterior. "You came."

There was a moment's hesitation before he took a step forward and embraced her in a hug. She still hadn't said a word, but when she felt his arms around her, she couldn't help but say, "Hey, El."

He released her slowly, and they moved to sit opposite each other. The waitress came by just then to refill Elliot's cup and take Olivia's order.

"Just a cup of coffee, please," she requested.

"You got it," the waitress said. "Cream and sugar?"

"Just cream, thanks," Olivia responded.

As she turned back from speaking with the waitress, she saw Elliot, elbow on the table, chin resting lightly in his left palm, watching her. Olivia shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"I'm glad you're here, Liv. I wasn't sure you would come," was all he could manage to say.

Not one for mincing words, typically impatient, and just generally maxed out from the discomfort of this whole week and these past four minutes, Olivia said, "I tried for weeks to text and call you. I had to clean out your desk. Do you know what that was like? I'm mad at you, Elliot."

At this he couldn't help but smile. "You don't waste any time, do you?" he said.

"Well, you know me," she retorted. "Not big on the bullshit."

Elliot smiled again at that because it was true. She was closed off as hell when she wanted to be, but she was nothing if not 100% herself at all other times.

"Can we start with, 'How are you,' first?" Elliot asked.

"No, we cannot, Elliot. What the hell was that?" She was fired up now. The coffee was in front of her, untouched, her coat was still on, and she could feel her cheeks reddening.

"Olivia," Elliot started, taking a tone she had heard many times, one that indicated there were no easy answers.

"What is this, Elliot? You leave suddenly, without so much as a goodbye. You literally disappear. You won't even talk to me. And then, almost a year to the day you put in your papers, I get a cryptic text from a number I don't recognize, telling me – not ASKING me, mind you – to meet you on Friday, and you don't even bother to give me a location? What kind of shit is that, Elliot?" Her words were coming out fast now.

"I knew you would know it was me, Olivia," he said, quietly.

"That's not the point, Elliot," she answered, shaking her head at him. "What made you so sure I would know where to go? And that I would even show?" she asked.

"I knew you would know where to go, Olivia, but I wasn't sure you would show," he responded. "I'm glad you're here."

He was right. She knew exactly where to go. He had known he didn't need to specify.

"There is a lot I need to say to you, Liv. I owe you that. I know I do. I am not sorry for leaving, but I am sorry for how it affected you," he continued. "I know there is probably a lot you want to say to me, and I want to hear it."

Olivia wanted so badly to stay angry. She wanted to flip over the table, throw the coffee mug at him, and let it all out. But she didn't. She needed to give him a chance to explain. She had no choice in the matter.

That night he had come back with her to her apartment. They talked for a long time. They were as honest as they could be, the wounds reopened and crudely stitched back up by sincerity and effort. He told her that something in him had broken the day he shot a child to death. He'd finally gone as far as he was willing to go. He told her that the horrors they had dealt with for years had taken their toll and that he had to save whatever bit of himself he had left. He admitted he knew if had spoken with her about it - seen her disappointment, heard the pain in her voice - that he wouldn't had left. And that it would've killed him.

As hurt as she was, she knew he was right. It would have ended badly for him.

She had forgiven him that night, but she had never mentioned him to anyone. Not the Captain. Not Amaro. Not even Fin. Elliot had gone home to his wife and not mentioned Olivia. He and Kathy never spoke about that part of his life anymore.

The work was hers alone now. Her hell was fresh and replenished on the daily, and although she didn't know it then, would reach unimaginable levels of horror, even for her.

Eight years ago, they had entered uncharted territory together. As friends and not partners. It was just the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time she saw him was 13 months later. After the abduction and torture.

He had told her the cell number from which he had texted her was a number for her only and to use it anytime.

They had talked by phone sometimes and texted quite a bit in the past year. She had thought about seeing him, but David had come into her life, and then Brian, and she had spent a lot of time talking to herself about what kind of woman she was and what she was willing to do and how if she just kept moving, she wouldn't ever collapse under the weight of it all. She had been happy with Brian, for a while anyway, and he loved her.

But it was Elliot she had thought about constantly while Lewis had her. It was Elliot she had yearned for, his name that she had mentioned again and again. It was Elliot whom she had wanted to see again.

When he had seen the news reports, Elliot was feral. Out of his skin. A danger to even himself. Fin had been keeping in touch with him as much as he could. He had cursed himself for leaving her, had thought about kicking that kid Amaro's ass, and had meticulously plotted how he would kill that son of a bitch Lewis when he got his hands on him. Turns out that wasn't necessary.

She had texted him a minute after she took the scissors to her hair in the bathroom.

_Lexington Hotel. Tonight 1900._

She received an immediate reply: _I'll be there._

* * *

She left a key for him at the front desk and went to the small room on the second floor. She had a bottle of wine and some painkillers with her but hadn't packed an overnight bag. She was exhausted and needed to be away from everything.

There would be a trial. It would be hell. She wasn't sure she was strong enough to go through it. Tonight, she just wanted to see him.

She heard the buzz of the door being unlocked. He entered to find her laying on the bed facing the door. She had haphazardly kicked off her shoes and was in a slight fetal position. The only light in the room was from the two-inch opening in the curtains and the soft glow from the hallway.

He didn't say anything at first. Instead, he walked over to the bed and knelt by her side. She reached out to him, running her hand over his cheek and chin. His eyes were red, and she could tell he was trying so hard to keep it together.

"Shh, Elliot," she had said. "It's okay." She moved over on the bed to make space for him, and he took off his shoes and laid down next to her. He gently ran his hand through her hair, turning up the ends.

"You cut your hair," he mused. "I like it."

"Oh yeah?" Olivia chuckled. "I did it myself."

They were quiet for a few minutes. She silently wondered where Kathy thought he was. He thought the same to himself about Brian. Neither of them asked. Frankly, she didn't want to know. The realization of that felt like swallowing sand, and she couldn't allow herself to think about any of that now.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked her gently.

She shook her head slightly, and he didn't press any further.

"Are you hungry, Olivia? Can I get you something?" he asked instead.

"Elliot," she responded. "I just want to lay here with you. Is that okay?"

"Of course," he said. And he watched as she fell asleep next to him.

* * *

She awoke with a strong jolt that scared the shit out of him.

"Hey, hey," he said, as he inched closer. "You're okay. You're safe."

Her wide-eyed expression gutted him, but she composed herself quickly.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't apologize," he responded. "How do you feel?"

"A little sore. I'm going to take some pain medication," she said as she lifted herself from the bed.

It was late in the night now and she could see that the glow from the clock in the room read 1:43 am.

She walked over to the dresser, grabbed the pill bottle, and went into the bathroom, flipping up the light switch. He watched her traverse the room. She was wearing black leggings, a T-shirt, and a gray hoodie. She had sleep hair, and he couldn't stop himself from thinking how beautiful she was.

He heard the water from the sink run for a few seconds before shutting off.

"I really feel like I need to take a bath," she said to him, standing at the doorway to the bathroom. She opened her mouth to say more then stopped herself. This time, he prodded.

"What, Olivia?" he asked.

"Well," she shrugged. "Seems trauma affects people in many ways. Mine seems to manifest in the need to constantly clean myself. Showers and baths. You know," she slowed, "I mean, it's weird."

"It's not weird," he responded. "Plus, you're paying for the room. May as well use the free water."

"Good point," she said. Then, "Elliot, would you mind getting me a few more bottles of shampoo from the front desk?"

He immediately jumped at the chance to do something for her, to feel useful. "Yup," he said. "I'll be right back."

Walking down to the lobby, Elliot found himself in a daze. He had been so angry at the world, so worried about her. And now he was with her and he was trying to keep it together for her because this wasn't about him. But it felt like he was the one that had been tortured.

He heard the water running as soon as he opened the main door to the room. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and he called out, "Liv, I've got the shampoo. I'll set it right inside the door." He placed the mini bottles down and shut the door.

"Thanks," she replied.

He sat in the room for what felt like an eternity waiting for her. He was certain that damn water must have been ice cold by now and he hadn't heard the water run again. Finally, he grew impatient.

"Liv," Elliot finally said through the door. "Everything okay in there?"

Olivia didn't answer. He asked again. Still no answer.

He cautiously opened the door and found her in her bra and underwear, wet hair dripping, staring at herself in the mirror. It took him a few seconds to steady himself. Not because she was standing there in her bra and underwear completely zoned out, but because of what he saw. Fading ligature marks around her ankles, purplish-blue bruises all around her lower back, burn marks on the back of her shoulder. And what he was pretty sure was a fucking bite mark on the back of her right leg.

Elliot walked over to her and put his hand lightly on her shoulder. "Liv," he said.

At this she whipped around, causing him to take a few steps back. What he saw on the front her body was so much worse. More bruises. More burns. Several jagged cuts on her chest.

"What the fuck," he couldn't help but say through gritted teeth.

"I'm s-s-sorry, Elliot," she said quickly, grabbing her towel and covering up. "I'm okay."

"You're not okay, Olivia. None of this is fucking okay," he said gruffly. "I swear I'm going to fucking kill that bastard."

"I'm fine, Elliot," she repeated, more convincingly that time. "I'm fine. It's okay. I didn't mean to scare you. Just give me a moment to get dressed."

A minute later, Olivia emerged from the bathroom looking more composed and slightly apologetic. She was covered up, not a bruise or burn visible. She walked over to the dresser and lifted the bottle of wine, twisting off the cap. She had brought two plastic cups from the bathroom and poured some into each. She handed a cup to Elliot.

"I'm sorry if I scared you, El. And I'm sorry you had to see that," she said.

Elliot was a little frustrated now. "Will you please stop apologizing, Olivia? None of this is your fault. And you're starting to sound Catholic."

At that, Olivia smiled a little. "No, I mean I'm sorry you had to see, see what he did. What I let him...God, Elliot. I don't know how I let this happen to me. How could I have been so stupid? I am a goddamn cop!"

The tears came then. The second breaking point in 24 hours. The first time, she'd cut off all her hair. This second time, without a pair of scissors in hand and little hair left, it wrecked through her body and she didn't have a choice but to let it.

Elliot walked over and took her hand, leading her to the edge of the bed. He held her while she cried, and it had been so hard for him to keep it together. Finally when the sobs turned to hiccup breaths that eventually became an occasional hitch in her breathing, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead and encouraged her to get some rest. "I'll lie with you," he said. "Just let me turn off the light."

For the second time that night, he watched her as she fell asleep. Not long after, the sleep overtook him too. The last time he looked at the clock before his eyes closed, it read 5:55 am.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

A/N full disclosure: I've seen post-Elliot episodes but have watched them sporadically and out of order. I've done some homework for this story and hope you will forgive the slight adjustments to the timeline.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I just love these two, so much so that if I had just three wishes, you bet your sweet ass I'd give up one to see them together.

* * *

He's disoriented when he wakes. For a moment, he doesn't know where he is. His eyelids are heavy and when he finally gets them open, he remembered. The night before.

Olivia.

He immediately sat up and looked around for her. The clock read 9:45 am, but it was pitch black inside.

_Shit_, he thought. He could tell from the stillness that she'd gone.

_Goddamn it, Olivia_, he muttered to himself. He slipped on his shoes and was out the door.

* * *

She'd gone out into the cold morning and left him sleeping. She'd been glad for it. The new morning had brought with it an onslaught of self-deprecation and the startling realization that she was more fucked up than she'd ever been. She couldn't face him. Not then. She couldn't allow him to give her the space and safety to break like that.

She straightened up and ran her fingers through her unevenly chopped hair. She steeled herself against the cold New York wind and fetched her cell phone from her pocket. She dialed the number for the salon and made an appointment for later that day.

She would get herself together. She_ had _to.

* * *

She'd had seen Lindstrom a few times, and she wasn't sure if it was helping yet, but it was part of her orders. So, she went. She would do whatever it took to get back to work. Back to her life.

Lindstrom had greeted her with a smile, and she had tried to return it. The sooner he released her, the sooner she could forget all this ever happened.

Compartmentalizing. Denying. Forgetting. She was good at those things.

She'd fixed her hair and put on nice clothes. Even done her makeup. She had sat on his sofa and her fingers had traced the necklace resting at her clavicle. Lindstrom had noticed. He had watched her intently, and she had tried her best to project healing and confidence.

"It's good to see you, Olivia," he said.

"Hi, Dr. Lindstrom," she said.

"How has your week been?" he asked, rather causally.

"It's been okay. My body is healing, and I've been sleeping better," she answered.

"That's good to hear," he said.

He didn't say anything else and she didn't know what to say either. Therapists are comfortable with silence, and she liked that, even if it made her feel uneasy. She stirred a bit in her seat and felt the buzz of her cell phone in her pocket. She knew it was him.

"Do you need to take that?" Lindstrom asked her.

"No," she answered quickly.

"So, tell me, Olivia," he continued. "How are you spending your days?"

"I've been doing some of the things we have talked about. I've been journaling. Trying to stay active. Fixing up the apartment. I enrolled in a martial arts class, but some of the moves are still hard so that's frustrating," she said.

"I bet it is," he normalized. "You're not used to the limitations of your body right now."

She visibly winced at that.

"It takes time, Olivia," he said.

"It's taking too long," she quipped, and she knew how frustrated she must have sounded.

"And do you feel like you have the support you need? Are you taking advantage of that?" he asked. "I know you've said that's hard for you."

"I'm tired of people being worried about me," she sighed.

"They care about you, Olivia," he said.

She knew this. She'd visualized a million times what it would be like to walk back into that squad room. The stares. The pity. It's the one thing she'd been most frightened of.

"Olivia," Lindstrom started. "Fear is not weakness."

They'd talked about this before. About the courage it takes to reckon with one's own fears. She knew this. She could intellectualize it all day. But it didn't make her feel any better.

"Are you ready to talk about it?" he asked cautiously.

She knew he wasn't trying to push her, but she also knew he would never clear her until she did. She didn't say anything. Her phone buzzed again, and she swallowed hard. Finally, she answered him.

"I guess this is as good a time as any," she replied.

"Okay," he said. And then he waited.

She looked at her watch and saw they had 35 minutes left in the session. She attempted a quick mental inventory of what she could say, how she could posture the nightmare in her head in a manner that would indicate she was dealing just fine. But his job is to notice everything. The way her eyes darted back and forth, from her wristwatch to the door. The way her breath became uneven and she clenched her fist then spreads her fingers apart and ran her hand across the sofa cushions.

"Don't think too much about it, Olivia," he said. "Let's try this. When I mention Lewis, what comes to mind?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Hard. It blinded her, but she could still see it. _Terror_, she thought. Visions of beating him with that bar, her flesh searing and the smell - - that horrible smell of her skin. Him running his hands down her thighs. Biting down hard.

She shook her head then, almost as if to reset her thoughts.

"How disgusted I am with myself," she answered. And then the panic set in.

* * *

He was sitting next to her, saying her name and telling her to breathe. He sounded far away, but his voice was slowly getting closer and closer.

"Olivia," Lindstrom said. "You're okay. You're in my office. Everything is safe."

She was back, but she immediately felt sick. The bile rose in her throat and before she could even ask for it, he had handed her a glass of water. She had drunk it greedily. She hadn't let one drop of water go to waste those days.

"Better?" Lindstrom asked.

"Yes," she said. "Better, thank you."

She set the empty glass down on the coffee table in front of her. It was heavy and its weight had comforted her. She had thought briefly that was probably intentional on his part and that anything, even the most common of objects, could be a tool.

He gave her time to settle and reminded her of the grounding techniques they had discussed. She looked up and felt grateful to be there.

"Olivia," Lindstrom now treaded carefully. "Maybe you're not ready ye-"

"The voices in my head," she interrupted. They're so...they're so loud. And they don't shut up."

"Tell me more about that," he encouraged.

But she didn't know how to talk about it. There was more silence.

"Tell me about the haircut instead, Olivia," he said.

Her right hand immediately went to her nape, which is was now undisturbed by her usually long tresses. _Oh yes, the hair_, she thought. She lowered her hand in embarrassment.

"Well, you know what they say. A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life," she offered, trying to add a hint of levity to her words.

"Yes, I've heard that. Is that what you did?" Lindstrom asked.

She thought about how to respond to this. Her first thought was that he likes her hair long. Elliot. He had never said it, but she knew. She had always taken time with her hair. Good shampoos. Pricey blow dryers and straighteners. A stylist she'd seen for years.

"I don't know," she said, as she had raised her eyes to meet her therapist's. "I was having a moment, I guess. I was standing in the bathroom looking at myself in the mirror, and I was so upset with the reflection staring back at me. So, I grabbed the scissors and cut it."

"It made me hot," she continued. "I could feel it sticking to my face and neck. For days, I could smell the vodka in it. Even after I washed it over and over, I could still smell it..." she trailed off.

"That's good, Olivia. That's a good start," he encouraged her.

He was proud of her. She could tell. It made her feel accomplished in some way. He seemed so serene. It was so natural for him, and she wondered if she would ever feel like that again with victims. Would they sense her triggers? Her agitation? Could she ever make them feel comfortable again?

"And how is Brian?" he proceeded.

She struggled with this. Brian. She hadn't seen him in more than 24 hours. He had texted her several times. She had told him that she was fine, that she just needed space. He was doing the best he could, but there is no playbook for this kind of thing and leading him through the process was further exhausting her.

"He's doing the best he can," she answered truthfully. "So am I."

"I know," Lindstrom said sympathetically. "I'm sure he knows, too."

"Do you have someone you can reach out to. Someone who doesn't feel like work?" His questions were calculated, and she wondered how the hell he could get into her head.

"I saw him right after I did it. Right after I cut my hair." She went for it.

"Who is 'him,' Olivia?" he asked.

"Elliot," she replied quickly. "My former...my former partner."

"Oh," Lindstrom said. "Did It help?"

"It's complicated," she answered.

There was that word again. The one word that encompassed everything she and Elliot were.

Complicated.

"I'd like to talk about that more, but I think this has been enough for today. Olivia, I would like you to come back later this week. How do you feel about that?" Lindstrom asked.

She acquiesced quickly, and he seemed pleased by this. More sessions just meant she would be finished with this process earlier.

"Are you ready to go out there?" he asked. It's his job to make sure he has closed the doors they'd opened during the session. She knew this, and she answered affirmatively.

"Okay," he said.

She had risen then and began to put on her coat.

"Will you try something for the next few days?" he asked.

She eyed him suspiciously, worried about what was coming next.

"Answer the voices, Olivia," he instructed.

She started to ask him what he meant by that, but then realized she knew.

"I'll try," she said. "Thank you, Dr. Lindstrom."

"I'm here for you, Olivia," he said, as he had gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "You can reach out to me anytime."

"I know," she said.

She walked out Lindstrom's office and had taken a deep sigh of relief. Another session down. The sky was dark and overcast, and it was windy as hell. She had pulled her coat more tightly around her chest, but she had let the cold air blast her face for a minute. Then she pulled out her phone and checked her messages.

* * *

It was another seven months before she saw him again. The third time.

She had been back at work almost five months. He'd been on an assignment. He was working for a consulting company that contracts with military installations. He had told her in one of his texts, and she hadn't been surprised in the least. That's what she would have guessed.

Olivia sometimes found herself wondering about his kids. But not for too long. And she hadn't allowed herself to think about Kathy at all.

Again, the sandpaper throat.

She'd physically healed at that point. Munch had retired. She had been promoted to Lieutenant. Things had been going well.

At first, Elliot was texting almost daily. She'd reply every third or fourth messages. Always the same: _I'm fine, El._ Or, _I know you worry, but I have to do this my way_.

He accepted that. He hated it. It made him seethe. But he accepted it. He knows her. She had given him space and grace, and she deserved the same.

She finally agreed to a walk in the park. He saw her before she saw him. It was warm out and he had planned to buy her a hotdog and let her direct the conversation.

She was glowing in the light of the sun. It radiated off her. Her strides were more confident. She was still hyperaware of everything around her, and he knew he only had a few seconds to look before she would see him. He relished those few seconds.

Her eyes met his, and she smiled. He felt more than he could possibly explain, seeing her greet him with a smile.

She caught up to him, and they start walking wordlessly, side by side. In step, just like always. She was to his left because she was always to his left. The feminine side.

He caught a glimpse of her scar. The one that's always been there, that's part of her. A childhood accident? He's wasn't. But he'd spent so much time looking at that scar and it made him warm with affection for her.

She spoke first. "Nice day for a walk in the park."

"It is," he replied. "This feels so normal." He immediately regretted that because it was such a stupid thing to say.

Nothing about them has ever been normal.

"Yeah, it does." She saved him from himself, as usual. Because she knew what he meant.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "Let me buy you a hot dog."

She laughed at this. "Big spender," she joked. "No, it's okay. I'm not hungry."

He eyed her. Up and down. He couldn't help it. She'd filled out some, and he liked it. But she'd always worried him with the food. He knew she was sensitive about it.

_They have this great thing called take out_, she had told him once, when he was snooping in her apartment.

So, he simply said, "Okay."

"How are you, El?" she asked.

She watched his nostrils flare and, on cue, his jaw clench.

"That's not supposed to be a hard question, El," she said softly.

"I know. It's not. I'm okay," he replied.

His jaw slacked and his pace slowed until he'd stopped walking completely. She turned around and walked back to him.

"How are _you_, Olivia?" He hadn't been able to help himself.

"I'm okay, Elliot. Things are…okay," she said. Although I hate to admit that I miss Munch.

Elliot laughed at this.

"It's a slow process. My therapist loves to remind me of that. Work keeps me busy and with the trial coming up, I need to stay busy," she continued.

The trial. He wanted to be in that courtroom and be there for her, but he already knew she doesn't want him to be. She wanted to keep him far away from it all. He'd have to read about it in the papers and wait. Hope and pray she'd comes to him when she was ready.

"It's hot," she said finally. "And I could use a beer. You up for it?"

She didn't have to ask twice.

* * *

Two hours and four beers later, they were still at the bar. She'd been throwing darts and she sucked at it. It made him laugh but she wouldn't give up.

"You're an asshole, Stabler." It was the first time she'd called him that since he'd left the force and it had thrown him off balance for a second. "Instead of laughing, why don't you give me some pointers?" she said.

"Wait. Hold on. You want me to give you pointers? On anything?" He was acting incredulous and she pretended to be annoyed but really was enjoying it.

"This must be the highlight of your entire existence, finding something you're better at than me," she said. And he had laughed again.

He's was fucking grateful for this. It was light and easy, and he wished he could freeze time.

"You up for another beer?" she asked.

He rolled his eyes at her. "Yet another thing I'm better at than you. Holding my liquor"

She swiped at him.

"I'll be right back," he said.

He returned a few minutes later carrying two beer bottles and two shots. The minute he placed them in front of her on the table, her face had contorted, and she had gagged.

"Get that away from me, Elliot," she nearly screamed. He grabbed the shots and tossed them in the trash can nearby.

"I'm sorry," she had said immediately. "I can't do straight liquor anymore. The smell makes me sick."

"I didn't know," Elliot said quietly.

"I know," she said. "Don't worry."

After that, the mood had shifted.

"It's getting late," Olivia said. "I have an 8 am briefing."

"Let me walk you home," he said. And she didn't argue because it was a little far and she wasn't quite ready to say goodbye.

* * *

It was so warm and sticky out that evening, and she had cursed the low-heeled boots she insisted on wearing every damn day. She was down to a tank top, and he had been surprised to see her with her shoulders and chest exposed. _Progress_, he thought.

He was in jeans and a V-neck black t-shirt. Standard issue attire for him those days. To make matters worse for her, he was in athletic trainers, so wasn't the least bit bothered.

"How are those shoes treating you, Liv?" _Smartass._

"Fuck off," she has said. He really was an asshole. And she was a little tipsy.

The sweat had glistened on her cheeks and nose and he had resisted the temptation to touch her more than once.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out and pressed the side button to silence it. She didn't dare look.

He didn't know where her new place was, so she was leading the way. He wondered what her apartment was like. He wanted to be able to see her in his mind's eye when they're were on the phone. He imagined her barefoot, treading lightly on her wood floors, absentmindedly cleaning up or sitting on her sofa, legs pulled up underneath her. Her favorite Spotify playlist on shuffle. What was she listening to those days anyway? He realized he didn't know, and he needed to remember to ask her.

He had remembered, then, being at a bar with her and Munch and Jeffries one night, early in their partnership. She had selected "Born to Run" on the jukebox. "I love this song!" she had said loudly. She was like an excited schoolgirl, singing along to all the words and twirling around like Stevie Nicks wearing her favorite shawl.

"Go get your girl, Stabler," Munch had said. _His girl_, he had thought. They were babies then.

_Tramps like us. Baby we were born to run._

Years later, she would run. It would be some of his darkest days.

* * *

They had arrived at her building.

"Thanks for walking me home," she had said.

He's looked down at his shoes. "Where's Brian?" Elliot asked, even though the thought of him and her pained him.

"He is on shift tonight. she asked.

"Blink your lights when you get inside," he said.

That had made her smile wide. He knew she remembered.

"My apartment windows don't face this street, Elliot," she said.

Damn, he thought. He leaned in for a hug and she hugged him back.

"I won't be a stranger," she had said, as she used her key to let herself into her building.

As he has watched her go, he couldn't help but think how fucking tired he was getting of seeing that.

* * *

That hell of the trial was over. She'd been dealing with some crazy shit with Amaro and Rollins, Cragen had retired, and she and Cassidy had broken up. Elliot had been out of the city on assignment again. They had been speaking over the phone more regularly now, so he knew all this already.

Four and a half months later brought reunion number four. The time in between them seeing each other had been lessening. After this, they had both stopped counting the visits.

She heard the familiar ding and she looked at the text: _You busy?_

_You're back?_ she answered.

He saw the typing awareness indicator in the message, but then it had disappeared. He hated it when that damn bubble disappeared.

Another text came through from her: _On my way to spin class._ _Join me?_

He'd never been spinning but decided what the hell. He was wearing track pants and trainers anyway. Thirty-five minutes later, he was standing in front of some ridiculously overpriced gym, watching a group of women chatting on the sidewalk. He looked for Olivia. She finally came into view. She was wearing yoga pants and a racer back tank. Her short hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and several strands framed her face. He'd had to catch his breath.

"Ready for this, Elliot?" she asked, as she met him at the door.

"It's just a bike that doesn't move, right? Not sure I see the point, but sure," he answered.

She smirked at him. "Let's go."

Fifteen minutes later, they were on their bikes. After some extraordinary effort, he had managed to get his feet strapped into the pedals. She had somehow snapped in her shoes and was raring to go.

The music started booming, and a very animated instructor has begun shouting instructions. _Up. Down. Up. Down. Fast. Faster. Slow it down_. The tempo of the music was paced to her instructions, and he looked at Olivia. She was flying. "Radioactive," by Imagine Dragons was playing, well blasting really, and her butt was off the seat. She was completely focused. Her face was flushed, and he had imagined she was working out so much shit on that bike. That was her way.

The cool down was a slow song. His heart rate was returning to normal and he was listening to the words_. I have died every day waiting for you. Darling, don't be afraid. I have loved you for a thousand years. I'll love you for a thousand more._

He had looked at Olivia. She turned her head to meet his eyes and they held their gaze for just a moment. Suddenly, the lights had come back on. The class was over, thank god, and he had nearly tripped over his feet the minute he stepped off the bike.

She laughed.

"Not as easy as you thought, huh?" she asked. It was more of a statement than a question, but he played along.

"Piece of cake," he has said.

"Yeah, right," she answered.

"I'd rather do 100 pull ups," he conceded. "Those don't make my butt hurt. She had smiled at this.

"I'm picking the workout next time," he said.

* * *

She's in the bath, trying to soak away the filth she experienced that day. She's held a gun to her own head and pulled the trigger. More than once. Her neck aches from where she had reflexively tried to dislocate her head from her body so the bullet just might miss her.

She can't even cry.

_His hands are on her. Creeping up her legs. Grabbing her ass. Her breasts. He's trying to unfasten her pants. His breath is hot on her face and he's whispering in her ear. "Look away, Amelia," she croaks to the child bound by her hands, in full view of what's about to happen. Amelia can't see this. She can't have this in her head. Olivia is about to die. And all she can think is that she doesn't want that sweet girl to have this memory. Why did she come here? Willingly. How does she care so little about her own life?_

_What about her?_

_She goes limp. In that moment, her mind carries her away. She's drifting. Heading towards a door. She knows what's on the other side. He's on the other side. Time stops and she's there with him, and none of this is happening. Lewis loses interest. And he has other ideas anyway._

_Goddamn it_. She slaps the water with her hands, and it stings. It's hot, and her skin is burning. But it's nothing compared to the heat of the adrenaline surging through her. It couldn't possibly be hot enough to burn her now. Nothing is.

He has no idea what she's been through. Not really. But he's felt uneasy all day. He is sitting at his desk, trying to file his billable hours, and he keeps screwing up the math.

_How hard it is to add three-digit numbers, Stabler_, he mutters to himself.

He walks into the kitchen and takes a lowball glass out of the cabinet. Rummaging through the pantry, his hands settle on the bottle he's looking for. He pours himself three fingers and downs it in one big gulp. Then he grimaces. He doesn't even like this shit.

He leaves the empty glass and bottle on the counter and opens the fridge for a beer. He twists the cap off and throws it on the counter next to the bottle.

He can't get her out of his head. He paces around his dimly lit kitchen, his beer dangling absentmindedly between two fingers. Muttering _fuck it_ to himself, he grabs his keys. The door slams behind him and he breaks into a jog.

He's glad he knows where she lives now. He keeps telling himself he's being ridiculous. That he can't just burst in on her uninvited. But his logic bears no weight on his emotions. His foot feels like lead on the accelerator and he wills himself to slow down.

In what feels like an hour but couldn't have been more than 20 minutes, he's standing outside her building. He doesn't know which intercom buzzer is hers, and he's so pissed about that. His texts are unanswered. Probably unread because she always responds now. He pretends to be fishing in his pocket for his keys as he waits for the couple and their dog to exit the building. Before he can stop himself, he's running through down the halls of the second floor. Which apartment is hers? What floor does she live on? He doesn't know. She used to live on the 4th, so he takes the stairs two more flights up. He's walking the hallway, looking for signs. And then he sees it. A wreath with dried English lavender flowers. That's it. He knows. She loves lavender. It soothes her. It reminds her of her mother. This _has_ to be it.

He's knocking on the door. Three raps so she knows it him. Still no answer. He knocks again. Louder this time. He keeps knocking. He's probably disturbing the neighbors, but he doesn't give a shit. He knows she's in there, he _feels_ her in there.

She finally opens the door. She's soaking wet and trembling. There is an angry scratch on her left cheek. Her face is expressionless, and she says nothing. Wordlessly, he steps into her apartment and closes the door behind him.


End file.
